


Drink

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ficlet, M/M, Sex Club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 16:39:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11085645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Spock’s terrible at Vulcaning, and this job does not help.





	Drink

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for ubiquitouskitty’s “22. sex club ft. Spirk? (Spock/Jim Kirk) extra love if you include Bones as well.” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/161379570810/au-prompt-list).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

This is one of those times where he’s inordinately grateful for his Vulcan reflexes; he can safely chop through the Terran green onions without once having to look down. Instead, his eyes are fixed through the tiny pass-through window, nothing more than a rectangle cut out of the kitchen, where servers are meant to come collect their dishes. Spock has set nothing on the window and isn’t anticipating any specific order. He just wants to see the stage. Only a small corner of it is visible, and even that obscured by all the booths of tables and plush seats in the way, but it’s enough. It shows only one pole. Spock’s favourite dancer is on it.

Spock should have _no_ favourite dancers, of course. He should be focusing on his job, not ogling the entertainment, and for that matter, he shouldn’t even _have_ this job. But in the moment, it doesn’t seem to matter, and Spock’s logic melts away in sweltering focus: he locks eyes on the toned body wrapped sensually around the pole. The senseless music blares, and the dancer’s body juts forward with each beat, grinding into the metal with a sensual grace that makes Spock’s mouth water. The dancer wears only a thin pair of briefs, white and nearly sheer, clinging tightly to his round ass and sizeable package. Currently the front is rubbing against the pole, indented with how hard it presses and tantalizing in its indecency. One strong hand grips the pole for balance, the other held behind the dancer’s head, long fingers strung through brown-golden hair. Shimmering blue eyes skim the crowd, glistening even brighter than the oil rubbed across his pecs, and the second they reach Spock’s, he looks away.

He spots, instead, the manager slipping through the back doors, bypassing the bouncers and headed straight for the kitchen. Spock pauses, only to realize he’s _been_ paused, and the onion was adequately sliced several seconds ago.

His nearest coworker doesn’t seem to notice, just acquiesces as Spock brushes the onion off his cutting board and into their shared salad bowl. That coworker, Sulu—with a first name Spock never registered—nods a silent thanks, then asks, “Do you have the pork yet?” And Spock quickly heads off without answering, as though to fetch said pork. He walks right past the walk-in freezer. He hates to go inside its frigid depths even for a second. He hates collecting _meat_ even more, the Synthesized variety or otherwise. 

He ducks around the corner of the narrow kitchen, spotting too many people down the hall in the break room and instead ducking into the supply closet. He barely has time to flick on the light, then shuts himself inside. Right behind him, he can hear the muffled growl of the manager, likely come to figure out why, once again, meat dishes are coming out twice as slow on Spock’s shifts. He knows he can’t get away with refusing to touch meat at work for much longer.

But he also knows that if he loses this job, he’ll lose that one dancer. He has to work _somewhere_ to earn enough credits to finish the Academy, and he knows he can’t rely on his father for it. There are a million better places for him to work, but this one...

This one also has his favourite peer, who would probably never talk with him outside of classes except for the occasional time they wind up in the break room together, Spock fully dressed in a black button-up and dress pants with a pink apron over it and that peer in almost _nothing_. The mere thought of it gives Spock a supple shiver. He can feel another wave of guilt raging against the corners of his mind, but he suppresses it. Tries to suppress it all. A job is only logical, he tells himself. The rest is immaterial.

The door opens, and Spock stiffens, pressing back against the concrete wall. There isn’t enough room for it—a bucket of cleaning supplies digs into his side. He’s relieved a second later when he realizes the manager hasn’t found him. Instead, Jim Kirk backs inside, peering out right up until he’s firmly latched the door closed. Then he turns to Spock, wearing a triumphant smirk, only to drop it for surprise.

There’s almost no space between them. Less than an arm’s length. And Jim’s still wearing nothing but the briefs. The shallow ceiling light doesn’t do his beauty justice. Spock’s sure his cheeks are bright emerald and wishes he could just slink through the floor. Even when they’ve sat beside one another in the break room, Jim’s had more clothes on—he usually tugs on jeans. It’s clear he just ran here from the floor, and with a sickeningly attractive grin, he admits, “Sorry—I saw Bones headed my way, and I didn’t want to get another earful. He caught me blowing someone on stage without a condom. But like it even matters in this day and age, right?”

Spock desperately hopes that’s a rhetorical question. He’s torn between being appalled at the mere thought and horribly _jealous_ , which makes him feel even worse—he shouldn’t be thinking about such lewd indecencies. Certainly shouldn’t react to them. But the thought of _Jim_ , on his knees, willingly and eagerly, gloriously near-naked and open-mouthed, erotic in every sense—

He reminds himself coldly that all that happened for _someone else_ , because Jim’s out there having ‘fun,’ and Spock’s in the kitchens betraying his people. The fact that this club serves alcohol is the least of its sins. 

In the wake of Spock’s awkward silence, Jim crosses his arms over his chest and asks, “You probably wouldn’t have seen it. Hey, how come you never come onto the floor during break? All the other chefs do at one time or another.” There’s something twinkling in Jim’s eye that Spock doesn’t understand, made worse by the close proximity. This is the most _alone_ they’ve ever been and would be the closest, if not for the time Jim fell asleep on the break room couch and Spock dared to take what little cushion was left of it. His cheeks are only getting darker.

He tries to channel Surak and carefully explains, “This is not my preferred form of... entertainment.” 

“I did think it was weird when a Vulcan started here,” Jim admits, “but I’m glad you did. You’re... different. I like talking with you on breaks and stuff.” Pausing to laugh, he adds, “I just wish you knew how talented I really was on the pole.” Then he winks, grinning all the wider, while Spock practically sways on the spot. This is simultaneously the best and worst thing that’s ever happened to him.

It’s a struggle to keep an eye on Jim’s face, even though Jim’s face is overtly handsome. Without wanting to admit just how much Spock sneaks a look whenever he can, he replies, “I think I know.” Jim lifts a challenging eyebrow.

Stepping closer, enough that Spock would back up right through the wall if he could, Jim purrs, “Do you?” Suddenly his voice is deeper, lower, rumbling slightly and full of _promise_ ; Spock’s studied human inflections here, and he knows what danger Jim leads to. He never thought it would be directed at _him_. But Jim lifts a tentative hand to place on Spock’s shoulder, desperately warm right through the uniform, and asks quietly, “Did you learn that through your touch telepathy?” He knows, then. “...Do you want to?”

He runs his palm along to Spock’s shoulder to his neck, diverting up it, grazing to cup Spock’s cheek. Spock’s mind is whirling, heart racing. He can’t read anything through Jim’s skin, but he can _feel_ a wave of dizzying _want_ , nearly equal to his own. He wants Jim almost violently, the way he did when Jim first rebuked his argument in class, and again when Jim _beat_ him at the Kobayashi Maru, and yet again when he realized Jim worked _here_ , giving way to wanton pleasures that Spock could never dream of. Jim’s a complex, dynamic, _gorgeous_ intoxication, the kind even Vulcan poets would submit to. And he leans closer into Spock, pink lips open, ready, waiting—Spock would give anything to kiss them—

Their mouths brush, given the chance to do nothing more, and the door bursts open again. This time it’s slammed hard enough to hit the wall and make Jim jump; it narrowly misses his back. Both look wide-eyed at Mr. McCoy, who levels a stare evenly between them. 

“What the hell are you two doing in here _on shift_?” McCoy seethes. Spock wishes he could explain. But it might entail crushing the chance for _this_ to ever happen again, so he remains quiet. Bones glares at each of them in turn. Jim offers nothing but an obliging shrug.

McCoy thrusts an arm out to point down the hall, barking, “My office, now!”

Chastised and ashamed, Spock obeys. As they both squeeze out of the closet, Jim chuckles under his breath, “I guess we’re not so different after all.” Spock looks at Jim curiously, and Jim just winks.

So it’s sort of worth it.


End file.
